My wife isn’t speaking to me. I’m finding the bliss upsetting but I’m managing to cope. I’m writing to you from the shed on my phone.
Expect some typos because there’s no light in here, I turned my screen down because it was too bright, and now I can’t remember how to turn it up again.
However, I can’t help wishing it was my wife I could turn down, not because I wish to silence women, and certainly not her voice. She is French and has a very nice voice.
I fell for her instantly when she walked up behind me in a bar and asked me where the bathroom was. I think my reply was “will you marry me…I mean on the left at the end of the bar.
She took it in good spirits though because she was a) flattered, and b) the ladies was at the other end of the bar to the right, and she walked into the gents and was much impressed by the structure of the British male.
It’s just that the glare on her face when she looks at me makes my eyes water.
The error of my ways
We had family over for dinner a few days ago. My son in law asked me what I thought of the leaders of the various parties.
I said that Sunak was sincere but inept; Starmer was a personality-free zone; Davey was fun but I’m not sure people had got the point. Then he asked the one thing he should never have asked. What did I think of Farage?
My wife went white, my daughter hurled herself across the table moments too late, and I forgot that I’m a grandfather several times over to children at an impressionable age.
I told him, and I will employ alternate spelling and atheists (asterisks – but I like that typo) here:
“He is a jumped up little s*it with the intellect of a dead frog, who lied to the British public, f*cked off and left everyone else to sort the mess out. Came back, took over a party, declared himself leader, found a seat that I wish had drawing pins stuck on it sticking up, and I find the bilge the little runt speaks (only I didn’t say runt) repulsive.
I further dug myself deeper by declaring that I’d like to shove the smug look on his face up Johnson’s rear while he was still wearing it. That I find all prejudice ducking offensive, and hope he crawls back into the woodwork like the weasel he is.
Which was when a four year old voice piped up “you didn’t mean runt did you grandpa you meant c…” and hell broke loose.
This is why you should avoid politics. It brings out the worst in you, leads you to behave in ways far below your standards. Ruins your son’s chances of siring another child, or sitting on a hard chair for at least six months. Teaches your grandchildren language unbecoming to a human being. And I now have to go and paint over the words “Fata*se is a banker” on the wall of the school gym.
That wasn’t the worst of it. So far this week my younger grandson has (not) called his teacher a runt for giving them maths to do, but he is the class hero. My granddaughter has tried the drawing pin trick and my son no longer needs a vasectomy.
All far exceeded by their slightly older brother telling the vicar at church that shoving a sinners face up someone else’s a*se made far more sense than ten Hail Mary’s. Which was no punishment at all as it’s a very pretty song about a nice lady who had an immaculate contraption and had to get married to save her reputation.
Apparently he greatly improved a rather dull wedding.
I did get a letter of thanks from the consultant in the local casualty for making his day when my son went to have his nether regions checked, and for calling out politics exactly like it is.
He is also sorry about the random stitch that he put at the wrong end of my son’s unmentionables, and was glad he saw it and snipped it out before my son needed to pass water. He just couldn’t see for the tears of laughter or aim for the shaking.
A highly humiliated and very very sorry, and cold…
Clarence
P.S. The shed isn’t actually on my phone. I’m writing on my phone.
P.P.S. I’m not really writing on my phone, I’m tapping randomly in the normal way.
P.P.P.S. I have been arsed to apostrophise for calling Libel Garage a furbin idiom, but I’m fartly perusing becourse I snow I’m ripe.
P.O.O.P.X I stink I’ve din willy well avoiding tiepots conslithering it’s bitch plack in ear now and the sherry tipple we had for desert has gone strict to my head.
Deb Hawken - Amorah 